


Full Circle

by Regole



Category: Dissidia Final Fantasy
Genre: Gen, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regole/pseuds/Regole
Summary: “He had once heard an old woman say that idleness was the hobgoblin of the mind, but he could not help but wonder if it was something less of a hobgoblin and more the tantalizing song of a siren, luring perfectly normal, well-meaning people to crash the ship of reason against the rocks of madness.” A story of how Cid of the Lufaine became the creator of his own nightmare.





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this was supposed to be a birthday present to myself . . . back in 2012. I finally got tired of it not being finished and posted for the past seven years, so here it is, months before my birthday. Oh well.
> 
> No spoilers unless you happen to be like me and have been farting around so long you haven’t played much or any of Duodecim. I did my research the best I could, though, so in theory this piece could ruin things for some, especially if you like the Warrior of Light.

**Word Count:** 5461  
**Date Submitted:** 6/21/19

* * *

  **The Endless Circle**

* * *

 Everything— _everything_ —had been his fault.

He had once heard an old woman say that idleness was the hobgoblin of the mind, and as he huddled there in his shock and despair, just before he was consumed completely, he could not help but wonder if it was something less of a hobgoblin and more the tantalizing song of a siren, luring perfectly normal, well-meaning people to crash the ship of reason against the rocks of madness. And he knew exactly when it had started.

He had just wanted to see them again. His allies, his . . . friends.

Generally without meaning to, they had given him a measure of comfort. As their leader he had needed to be strong for them and for Cosmos, and that one thing had held him together as he sought his crystal; each of them, amnesic and confused, had needed someone to look to so they could remember why they were fighting. He had not been in any better shape, in reality, but he had been in the presence of Cosmos when they arrived so they had simply assumed he was someone in a position of authority. And as he had looked at them—at their quiet exhaustion and muted hope—he had not been able to admit he was as in need as they. Thus with Cosmos at his back he had put up a suitable front for them and pretended he had some idea of what they were supposed to be doing and why.

Eventually, they had figured out their own weaknesses and their own reasons to fight, but they had never forgotten that he was their leader. And that had been the scary part. It was easy to be blind and lead others who were blind, for they would know no different. But to be blind and leading those who could see even if only the smallest bit . . . He could not remember when or how they had been made aware of his total lack of memories, but rather than anger there had been only surprise, and then compassion. And still, they let him lead. Perhaps they had understood, in some intrinsic way he still could not fathom, that he had needed a purpose—an anchor. There had always been the danger that the crystals might never have been found or might have taken a very long time to discover, so he had needed something other than that to brace himself with if despair had grasped at him, and that ‘something other’ had ended up being their faith in him.

Something intangible, but inspiring nevertheless.

That faith had buoyed him even after it was all over. Dumped on a world he had not known, he had been alone yet not alone. Using their trust in him as a guide, he had found other people whom _he_ could trust, and they had embarked on their own adventure soon after. Although it had been harrowing at times—fighting monsters and mad, power-hungry entities had not been nearly as alarming an experience as learning about the theoretically innocuous things like gut-twisting hunger and the ominous encroaching weakness that was sleep—overall it had been fun and had invoked the memories of those who had come before, especially when everyone else had forgotten what they had just done to save the world. The irony of _him_ being the only one who had retained his memories somehow, even when he had possessed so few to start with, had not been lost on him. But for that he had been proud and relieved. He had _never_ forgotten them.

At some point afterward he had settled into a peaceful life in a town which Tidus and Zidane surely would have identified as ‘Podunk.’ The people had been leery of him at first, but he had made himself useful by slaying all the monsters in the immediate area singlehandedly, and for that alone they came to value his presence quickly. Once ensconced in a comfy home there, he had discovered he had a curious knack for technology and with gusto set about tinkering and inventing and, if one of the neighbors needed help, repairing. Once he had done it enough to know it was not a fluke, the most brilliant, most horrible idea had come to him.

_He could see them again._

He had no idea how much of his existence he had devoted to that desire. He had prepared for every aspect of his absence—training new young warriors to keep the creatures at bay, teaching new young engineers the basics of mechanics and technology—and had eventually decided that he and his town were both ready for him to go. It had been somewhat gratifying to see their reluctance to bid him farewell.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” one worried voice had asked.

 _No,_ a part of him had answered definitively, but his mouth had said gently, “I do intend it, but I must say I can’t be sure. This is something no one has ever done before. That’s why I’ve trained so many to take my place—so you won’t miss me.”

Amid protestations that he would be missed anyway, he had gone home to spend one last night in his bed, then awakened in the early morning to leave before anyone had the chance to show up at his door and be made upset because his departure had been witnessed. As he had engaged the engine of his invention he had felt a brief flutter of anxiety—that perhaps his quadruple-checked calculations were entirely wrong and he would simply disappear into the eternity of nothingness he had managed to avoid when facing Chaos—but there had really been no going back. Success had meant not knowing which world he would end up on, but that he had indeed found himself on another world had been victory enough. Out of general curiosity he had taken a walk to find out what he could and see if, maybe, one of his friends was there.

He had almost missed him, for he had not been looking for anyone in particular but at the same time had been looking for particular qualities—armor and weapons, maybe a cape. Unfortunately, those qualities happened to be everywhere in virtually every world, so it was remarkable that he had even picked out most of his friends.

“Firion? _Firion_!”

Firion had not recognized him initially, which was not really surprising. The others had only ever seen him in his full armor, and even though he had kept that stored in his machine just in case, he had not been wearing it—merely a tunic and breeches and a pair of leather boots with his sword sheathed at his side and a light hooded cloak draped over his shoulders. It had only been as he had gotten close that it had occurred to him he did not know what the local time was, thus he had no idea if Firion even knew him—if their battles together had happened yet.

Then, gloriously, Firion had straightened and smiled broadly and greeted as he moved to close the distance as well, “ _Whoa_! Hey there, you!” The liegeman had embraced him the way one might a long-lost brother and invited him home with a warm laugh of, “So where did _you_ come from?”

Fortunately, he had never encountered a situation where he was not recognized by one of his friends. As in Firion’s case there had usually been some kind of blank stare because none of them had ever expected to see him, and sometimes it had persisted for a while if there were lots of local distractions or a particularly faded memory as in Tidus’ case, but the most he had ever had to do was draw his sword, and the simple sight of it had caused the same excitement most of the others had shown a bit sooner. _Most_ of the others being the key there, since Cloud and Squall had been as solemn as ever, though no less hospitable. Terra had even, though shyly, given him a kiss on the cheek. Zidane had also tried to kiss him, but seeing as the thief was not nearly as pretty or polite or pleasant in general as Terra, he had managed to duck away from the obvious joke.

All of them had wanted to hear about how he had been, and in turn he had been able to see that they were all doing well for themselves. He had not wanted to stay long with any of them, lest the tug to stay forever grew too strong, but he had stayed for one night and shared meals with them and in a couple of instances made some repairs to a few broken things, and had even gone out to ‘help’ slay monsters “for old times’ sake,” which he had not really understood when they had fought manikins instead of monsters, but supposed it was an acceptable substitute. In all, he had always had a great time with each new visit. He had met families and other friends and been reassured by his own friends’ contentment, and had been able to pass along greetings from one to the next.

Saying goodbye had never gotten easier, however. Each had invited him to stay, and as tempting as it had been he had still wanted to see the rest, and that was something they had at least seemed to understand. What had followed had always been another hug—and another kiss from Terra—and a sad smile, but they had seen him off without further protest. And though they had stayed at a distance to avoid getting hit with whatever backwash his machine might have caused they had nevertheless remained in the area until he had gone, so that his last views had been of them in their worlds, happy and at peace.

Tidus had been the last one he had visited, and the time at which he had arrived had meant the athlete was the oldest, though not by much, of all his allies; although in good mental and physical condition, the fight against Chaos had been so long ago for Tidus that the memories had simply been shelved decades back. But the blond had still remembered, and the visit had sparked the youthful impulsiveness he had recalled encountering so often. And when Tidus had offered him the chance to stay, because he had already visited the others he had almost accepted. In the end, though, he had decided to return to the world he had come to accept as his own, and Tidus had made some disappointed noises, conceded that his own age had meant he would be gone sooner than later anyway, and wished him a safe journey and seen him off like those before.

He never _had_ figured out what happened—the whole event had made no sense then or after. But perhaps that was what ‘destiny’ meant. Whatever the case, his machine had held together perfectly for each prior trip and never gave any indication that there was a potential problem. But suddenly alarms had begun to sound around him and everything had been going flat _wrong_ —it was like each part of it had decided to malfunction at the same time as every other part. In desperation he had performed an emergency ‘landing’ that had deposited him somewhere that was definitely not his home, in the middle of a stone-paved square full of understandably startled people.

Unlike the village he had come to call home, the people of the place he had found himself in had all been curious and friendly. Awed by his arrival and his knowledge—and also upon learning that he had no recollection of his name—they had accepted him as one of them and begun to refer to him through the use of an old word of theirs that meant ‘guest.’ And so, from then on, he had been known as Cid—Cid of the Lufaine.

There had been something strange about that name, but it had been overshadowed by the place. Lufenia had been a location he had visited some time before during his adventure after the cycle’s end, and although he had been able to discover the year and learn he had arrived in the past, it had been both exciting and a comfort to find out that despite his machine’s malfunctions it had managed to deliver him to what was approximately his home. Thus he had been content to start his life over again, and he had enjoyed respect and a smidge of adoration from the Lufaine. It had been mostly out of gratitude for their hospitality that he had researched and built the airship, and there had been something incredibly surreal about knowing that he would eventually utilize it, without even knowing he had built—would later build?—it. That had been worth a chuckle.

At that point, however, things had begun to get . . . a bit odd. Because it had been as he was overseeing the airship’s construction that he had met a stunning and much-too-familiar woman.

Cosmos.

Or, at least, that was who he had thought she was at first. But although she had been identical in appearance she had not been anywhere near as ethereal or seemed to carry anything like the crushing sorrow Cosmos had. He had, admittedly, initially been drawn to her solely because of her appearance—a living memory of something from his old life—but later he had been charmed by her wit and the delightfully fascinating way she could turn a biscuit, a potato, and a chicken into a meal for four. She had found his hair, of all things, to be entertaining, and had often kept him distracted by playing with it. Even after learning that it had always been that color, she had at some point begun to joke that he worried so much over his work he made himself gray. As one might have imagined, eventually he had found himself with nicknames that related to advanced age—Old Man, Geezer, Gramps, and the like—and she had been the only one who had dared refer to him that way. After a while, the only one he had _permitted_ to refer to him that way.

She had made him feel strange, though—put all his senses on high alert when she was close and caused an unsettling sensation that a couple of his Lufenian friends had identified as “butterflies”—and his disconcertion had meant he had recoiled from her. He probably should not have been so surprised that she had first of all continued to pursue him, and second had managed to be simultaneously offended and pleased by his behavior once she found out why he was avoiding her. She had said it was because it was “flattering” or some such . . . and also funny to see a tall and usually confident man “run like a terrified rabbit” when she was able to get within a certain radius of him. Which, unfortunately, had not been as much of an exaggeration as he would have liked to pretend.

He had known little about love at the time but had still understood adoration, which he had felt for Cosmos before. He had worried that he was projecting one of them onto the other somehow, a possibility that had distressed him more than he could explain, and feared it meant he was being unfair to both. She had stubbornly followed him, however, something he had felt Cosmos would never have done except under the most dire of circumstances, and someone had finally warned him that she was not going to go away.

“She picked _you_ , Cid,” one of his assistants had explained. “If I were you I’d slap a ring on her before she gets away, but I guess if you _really_ don’t want her . . .” A shrug had emphasized the next statement. “Well, good luck scraping off someone like her, that’s all I can tell you.”

The wish of luck had done nothing to help. She had continued to loiter in his workshop and harass him, even when he had been quite certain he had locked all the doors and made sure no one else was there with him. And as he had come to know her better his heart had turned against him little by little, day by day, driving his common sense and rationality into a corner until he had nowhere else to go except toward her. Giving up had not been as hard or terrible as he had thought it would be, and they had been happy.

Then had come Onrac.

Something deep in his gut had twisted violently at the idea of creating a weapon for them, even if only to balance the distribution of power amongst the neighboring nations, but the strange crystal ore the government had provided him with had just been so _interesting_. His wife had been happy to assist him with his studies, naturally, and although there had been many, _many_ failures, in harnessing the powers of harmony and discord they had eventually managed to produce precisely what Onrac had wanted. A rather aesthetically-displeasing success, admittedly, but still a success; fortunately, Onrac had wanted functionality, not beauty, and the ugliness had actually been of benefit for a creation that had been meant to inspire fear in Onrac’s enemies. Even so, he had felt a jolt of unease whenever he looked upon the child-sized weapon.

It had been Chaos. _That_ Chaos—the one he had fought so hard against before.

His wife had tried to calm him, bless her, even though he had resisted the memories by refusing to tell her more than, “I once fought something that looked just like him.” Onrac had wanted him to observe and report Chaos’ behaviors and interactions anyway, so at her suggestion, to ease his mind, they had fostered the boy and his budding humanity in their home instead of in the lab, and for a while it had worked wonderfully. They had never been able to have children of their own so Chaos had become their son, undeniably unattractive but nevertheless a kind child who had always been willing to help when asked. They had never lied to him—he looked different because he had been born in a manner not like the other children his age, and Onrac wanted him to fight wars in the future—and when he had said one day that he did not want to fight anyone . . . well, it had not been difficult to assure him that they would not force him to. They would _never_ force him to.

Onrac had.

He and his wife had refused them, and for that Chaos had been ripped away and they had been imprisoned. It had taken ages to escape, and the first thing they had done with their freedom was risk recapture and death to seek out their son. They had agreed it would be the first thing they would do, no matter the repercussions. As it happened they had found him hidden in the Lufenian laboratory in which he had been ‘born,’ exhausted by war and Onrac’s ruthless experimentation. He had grown so much bigger, and, in truth, so much uglier since they had last seen him, but even though he had been suspicious of them at first—someone had fed him a number of lies—once they had convinced him of who they were he had become their son again, just like that. Despite everything he had been through, the memory of their affection had buoyed him, and he had tucked his spirit away to defend it until he had thought it had been safe to reveal it again.

Even more surprising about their visit had been that during their absence Chaos had been supervised by a woman who had happened to be a dead ringer for his ‘mother,’ though far more solemn; she had never seemed to smile even though she apparently had many of the same nuances otherwise. A guilty, heavyhearted conscience on the woman’s part had provided information that had allowed the truth to come to the surface quite fast: She had been comprised of the same strange crystal ore as Chaos, and in reference to that and her duties Onrac had given her an appropriate codename.

Cosmos.

Panic had set in then. Chaos, Cosmos . . . It _could not_ have been a coincidence. But there had been no time to do more than become alarmed, because almost as soon as they had suggested Chaos escape with them, Onrac had found them all. They had fled—tried to flee—and his heart had leaped with a burst of adrenaline when the soldiers had begun shooting at them. He had insisted they go ahead of him and they had, but it had been as they had ducked around a corner that each had been exposed to the gunfire.

That was when his wife had been hit—a chance strike in the ribs, just when her arm had moved out of the way. She had gone down hard, and he could still recall the inhuman noise he had let out at the sight, though it had been overshadowed by Chaos’s even more inhuman one. In a burst of fury Chaos had used his power to create some kind of spatiotemporal rip in the fabric of reality, then grabbed Cosmos’s hand and dived through. In turn, Cosmos had grabbed _his_ hand and dragged him along after them. He had tried to resist, but Chaos had been pulling the other way and there had been no course left to him to get free. All he had been able to do was watch as the Onrac soldiers advanced on where his wife lay bleeding across the previously spotless tile floor.

She had smiled at him.

The instant they had reached wherever Chaos had taken them to, he had _commanded_ that either Chaos or Cosmos or both reopen the portal so he could help his wife. They had both tried, even through a combination of their power, but after the war and the testing Chaos had exhausted his strength with just that one act, and Cosmos alone had not had the ability to recreate a portal she had not opened in the first place. But she had promised him that since the portal had crossed the fourth dimension of space-time it was still possible for them all to rest and recuperate, and then they would be able to reopen the portal at almost the exact moment it had been opened before; the delay would be minimal or nonexistent, and surely they would be able to rescue his wife and tend her wounds.

Garland had found them not too long after, and perhaps if he had not been so distraught he might have been more alarmed still at seeing someone _else_ from his past. But as it happened, even Garland had not been—had never been—the real danger.

Shinryu. _Always_ , it had been Shinryu. He should _never_ have placed his faith in the dragon.

Except he had. All he had wanted was to get back to his wife and help her, and for that he had made a deal with a devil clad in diamonds and gold. Shinryu had promised Chaos would be able to recover faster with its help, and he had agreed without consideration, plowing over Cosmos’s protest that time was not a factor and if he would please just be _patient_ . . . But he had not listened, and in the end she had agreed to participate in Shinryu’s scheme, making herself complicit in his folly and following him straight into hell exactly the way his wife would have; for some reason she never _had_ known what was best for her when it was something he was involved in. And that had explained, then, his oddly intense adoration of her before, for she had been a near-perfect copy of his wife and some distant part of him must have remembered her.

While Cosmos and Chaos and Garland and Shinryu fulfilled their roles, he occupied his idle time dabbling some more with the strange crystal ore from which Chaos had been built. Many, many failures followed. But then, at last, success. Of a sort.

It had been a perfect copy of him, distinguished only by its complete lack of personality and memories. He had felt a vague sense of disappointment at that, but because he had known it was something he had made during his free time he had not put much effort into worrying about his failure. But then he had remembered that someone—some scientist’s assistant, years ago in Onrac, whose name he had never learned and really had not listened to—had told him everything without meaning to.

“They’re kind of like life-size dolls, don’t you think?”

With dawning horror he had sent the creation—the _manikin_ —away, wondering what would become of it yet knowing exactly what would happen. He had known because he _remembered_. And it all went exactly as it had before. Eventually, innocents—warriors, yes, but innocents in their ignorance—were brought to the world to satisfy the terms of his agreement with Shinryu. In desperation, to minimize the casualties of his plan, he had created other manikins based on his memories of the allies he had been able to recall so clearly, and then given each memories belonging to strangers who had once volunteered for the memory-retention system he had developed in Lufenia. He had hoped that the memories would see them through the dark times ahead. But even that, after a time, had become painful; to watch them suffer and struggle but so bravely push on had been horrifying. He had to wonder what he had become, to allow such terrible things to happen. To have _caused_ them to happen.

That was why, at the end of the thirteenth cycle, despite knowing full well what it would mean for him and Chaos and perhaps even Cosmos, he had broken the agreement with Shinryu. He had simply been unable to take any more. He had snatched his allies and friends away from Chaos—leaving the once-gentle boy he had raised to die alone as the twisted beast he had so blindly made the child into—and sent them to what he had grown to feel was his own world. He had been sure that, as he had recalled from before, the last remaining power of their crystals would take them from there to worlds—or at least regions—suitable to their needs and natures.

In that, at least, he had been right.

He had lingered to see them off, aware of Shinryu’s approaching wrath but not concerned by it. One did not mock a god, and regardless of how he may have worded it, that had doubtless been exactly how Shinryu had taken it. Whatever the divine dragon would want to do to him, he had resolved, he would accept every moment. Except that his punishment—for betraying Shinryu and Chaos, and more, for betraying those who in the past had trusted so much in his leadership—had been to see his precious friends dragged right back into the conflict he had freed them from and watch them be weakened and revived, weakened and revived, until finally Chaos became too strong and simply wiped them out. Unable to stand it but unable to escape, there had been nothing he could do but _ache_ in his loneliness and guilt and grief, and had nearly failed to notice that he had been freed by new warriors from what had turned out to be some nightmarish alternate reality of Shinryu’s creation. He had not known if that meant his allies who had been killed had ever actually existed, but there had been a swell of relief nevertheless.

Somewhere, they were still alive.

He had gone to Cosmos, the so-perfect manikin of the dear wife he had lost, and suggested they leave. But she had wanted to stay and care for the world he had nearly destroyed with his poor judgment, and even though he knew he should have stayed too—until the end of that world came, and then gone down with the proverbial ship—he could not. The pain of what he had done pulled at his soul; he would have done no good as a demigod. So he had bid her farewell and wished her happiness for as long as it might last, and then set out on his own. Without her to accompany him, he had known what he had to do and how to do it.

He had meant to prevent the cycle from ever beginning by subtly influencing his manikin.

So off he had gone, to his world, and found his manikin in the middle of the adventure. Anxious to avoid causing any more trouble, he had settled himself quietly in what equated to his manikin’s subconscious and planned his strategy. He had protected the manikin’s memories from the breaking of the time paradox, that way the horrors of the cycle would never be far away and would, he had hoped, offer caution where there might have been only recklessness. And when the time had been right, he had nudged some mechanical knowledge into its conscious mind to give it something to focus on—a purpose. As adaptive as before, the manikin had accepted the suggestion without protest and begun to tinker. Over time, it had interacted with the people of the village it settled in, grown stronger and more independent, and just generally blossomed. He had been so thrilled at his success.

Only too late had he noticed that he had been having fewer independent thoughts, that he had been doing less nudging and more oblique participation. By the time he had realized his consciousness was being assimilated by that of the manikin, there had been nothing more he could do for _himself_. Desperate, he had fought frantically to retain any semblance of individuality, but his battered soul—or whatever part of him it was that Shinryu had taken from his physical body—had never recovered from the strain of the cycle and Shinryu’s punishment; meanwhile, the manikin’s recently acquired personality had been reinforced and strengthened by everyday events, it had grown, and had in the end encroached on the little space he had staked out as his own.

Far too soon he had begun to sink into the oblivion of obscurity and become naught but some dim spark of memory, and the knowledge of what was going to happen was torture. From the beginning it had been him, making one well-meant misstep after another. Obviously, the road to hell really _was_ paved with good intentions, and he had paved his portion in solid gold.

Everything— _everything_ —had been his fault.

Once, he recalled a flash of an instant before he lost all sense of himself, at some point during the twelfth or thirteenth cycle—he was unable to remember exactly which one when they were all the same and bled together into one horrifically protracted fight—he had felt something deep within his gut. Knowing as little as he had then, he had been unable to identify it and ultimately dismissed it. But in hindsight he realized that it had been grief and horror—grief and horror that it was happening _again_ and that _he_ was the one who made it happen to begin with. He was not the first self to fail, and he would doubtless not be the last. He wondered which failure he was.

He finally understood what was _really_ going on. The fact was that the cycle had nothing whatsoever to do with the battle between harmony and discord; harmony and discord could never genuinely go to war because each needed the other to validate itself, so to destroy one would render the other null. That meant the cycle was entirely about _him_. Shinryu’s true punishment for his betrayal—for even making a deal at all, as though he were wise enough to comprehend and accept the grave repercussions of his choice—was that he would never remember what he had done until it was impossible to reverse it.

So even though he accepted the futility of the gesture, he reached desperately for his manikin’s strong mind as the darkness of his false death swallowed him. _Listen to me! **Please**! It’s happening all over again! Don’t help them, when they ask for it— **don’t** create Chaos for them! It has to stop with **you**!_

Maybe it would. But he, as a quiescent fragment of his manikin’s existence, would never know.

**Author's Note:**

> Full Disclosure: The Final Fantasy wiki says Cid’s name doesn’t mean what I said it means. Indeed, my “translation” is made up for the sake of the story.
> 
> There are a couple of things in this piece that I’m not entirely pleased with. But honestly, at least for this work my mind has snapped and I’ve reached the point of not caring anymore. Hence why it’s posted at last. Also, this is a one-shot (obviously); that said, there are bits of a “part 2” that I started writing just because I’m a happy-ending sort of person. Maybe one day I’ll finish and post that, but for now, eh.


End file.
